by Tia Siren
Incensed at this show of blatant disrespect, the scowling woman struck a condemning finger stern in the clerk’s direction.
“How dare you, Sir! You are not a gentleman,” she accused the stone faced man, adding as she used her free arm to clutch her daughter tight to her side, “I will speak to your employer at this station. Now!”
Rolling his eyes in the face of her fury, the ticket agent made a vague gesture in the direction of the bench that formed a modest centerpiece for the stifling station.
“If you wish to continue to make a public spectacle of yourself, Madame, then please do so away from my ticket booth,” he demanded, adding as he turned away, “I have to see to my paying customers.”
It was at that point that an exhausted MariAnne collapsed with her daughter on the surface of the wooden bench that formed the center of the station; clutching a now crying Ellie close to her as they huddled together in a cocoon of pain.
“Oh baby girl,” MariAnne muttered, hugging a sobbing Ellie as she continued, “I am so sorry that I had to bring you into a world where people are so cruel to each other. Just know, though, that there are some really good folks out there—like your grandma and grandpa. As soon as we can, dear love, I am going to take you to meet them, as well as your aunts. We are going to a place where people laugh and love each other, where beautiful yellow roses grow and the sky is broad and blue. And I know without a doubt that little Miss Ellie will be the queen of the house.”
Lulled and comforted by these soft spoken words, Ellie smiled as she leaned her head against her mother’s chest and shut her eyes tight; finally drifting off into a comfy sleep as her mother held her close.
“Wish I could do the same thing,” she mused, adding as she rubbed her daughter’s back, “Truth be told, though, I have no idea as to where this little one and I are going to sleep this night.” She paused here, adding with a thoughtful frown, “I might have enough money for one night at the inn down the street—but then most of our funds would be depleted, and then where would we go? I can’t even ponder the notion of going back home; it may just be the last thing that Ellie and I ever did. Yet we wouldn’t last long out on the streets, either—not with all the thieves, rustlers and drunks in these parts. I do have a few friends here; but once that husband of mine finds out that I’m gone, the first place he’ll look is at the homes of our friends--and God help them if they make any effort to shield or protect me. He’ll go through us to get to Ellie and me, and then God help us all.”
MariAnne froze then, a few errant tears descending her own fair skinned cheeks as her entire being suddenly was overcome by a sense of complete and total helplessness.
For once the ever strong Texas filly had no answers, no energy, and precious little fight to bring to her current situation. For once the undefeatable MariAnne felt prepared to surrender; too weary and frightened to take another step.
Just then her precious little girl shifted restless in her arms, reminding her of the reason that she should, that she must go on with life; not resting until she found a safe and joyful place for them both to live.
“One of the two main reasons,” she reminded herself, adding as she sat upright on the bench and straightened her firm spine, “My life matters as well, and I will be dad gum it if I allow that varmint I married to rule and destroy me. I shall survive—somehow.”
Just then she shut her eyes tight, praying to the Lord above—the one that her parents had taught her to turn to in times of need and challenge—for some small hope of an answer.
“I just need that second wind, dear Lord—that wind of a hope,” she prayed in silence. “Please God—just show me the answer, show me the way, and I swear to you that I will hit the ground running. I will make a wonderful new life for my daughter and me—I just need a good head start.”
She jumped then as the scrap of thick parchment brushed harsh against her leg; bringing her to attention as she snapped her eyes open and cast a condemning look in the direction of the offending paper.
“So that’s my answer, dear Lord?” she inquired aloud, sending a narrow eyed quizzical look in the direction of the sky, “A paper cut?”
Shaking her head from side to side, MariAnne leaned forward to retrieve the phantom paper, which turned out to be that day’s issue of The Ramblin’ Report; a local newspaper filled with a smattering of timely news items, printed amongst a sea of advertisements that supported the publication of the periodical.
In search of a momentary distraction from her troublesome dilemma, MariAnne opened the newspaper to cast a casual glance at its contents; her gaze drawn immediately to a bold bordered advertisement that boasted a most intriguing headline:
Wanted: Mail Order Bride.
“Criminy,” she mused, rolling her eyes heavenward. “The Ramblin’ Report has precious few standards when it comes to advertising.”
Just curious—not to mention repelled—enough to read on, she proceeded to peruse the remainder of the ad.
“Let me start by saying that I never envisioned myself placing an advertisement such as this one; one that publically advertises for a bride. Yet at this point I fear that my need is most pressing. I am a deputy sheriff in this area who recently acquired a sizable ranch by way of inheritance, and I need a pair of helping hands to work my land and help me succeed. Furthermore I would far prefer that this pair of hands be soft and feminine—while still belonging to a woman of spirit, a true pioneer.”
MariAnne nodded.
“Mmmm, sounds most familiar,” she mused, adding as she inclined her head in a show of keen curiosity, “Yet I must inquire this. If—and this is a most significant if—I were to respond to this ad, what would this gentleman have to offer me?”
Just curious enough to read further, she shifted comfortable on the surface of the bench as she read the remainder of the advertisement.
“You may be pondering as to why you should even consider responding to this most unique request,” the ad read.
“Indeed,” MariAnne confirmed, eyebrows arched. “Do tell.”
“Well let me tell you as to why you should consider assuming the role of my worshipped mail order bride,” the advertisement continued. “First of all, as indicated, you will be worshipped in my care and company. I never shall treat you as a ranch hand on my property. I would wish for us to toil side by side, sharing equally in the work and the responsibility of tending our land while also reaping its fruits. And when we retire at night to my beautiful new ranch house, I promise to treat you as a princess in her palace; to love and honor you, as our vows would state.”
“Please do not keep me waiting, my princess,” the ad continued, finishing with the name and address of the gentleman placing the ad.
“Clayton Townsend,” MariAnne read aloud, shaking her head in shock as she immediately recognized the name of the gentleman who had placed the advertisement.
“And from what I have gathered, he is indeed a gentleman,” she mused, adding as she stroked her chin to thoughtful effect, “A deputy who has established a stellar representation as a law keeper in this area. I have heard that he has a particular soft spot for women and children; truth be told I had been thinking of seeking him out in town, to talk to him about the way that Ellie and I were being treated at home.”
Although she had no desire to be anyone’s bride, particularly in light of her current experience, she wondered if Clayton would be willing to take her in and at least provide temporary shelter for her and her daughter.
“I guess there’s only one good way to find out,” she mused, standing from the bench with Ellie in her arms as she collected her luggage and headed for the door.
Chapter three
At times in his life, the silence proved deafening.
Just returned from a long day’s labor as a deputy sheriff in a bustling Texas town, Clayton Townsend rested easy in the comfort of a luxurious cushioned chair; a centerpiece in a sitting room th
at featured polished wooden hand carved furniture, decorative buckskin wall hangings, and silver polished miniature statues adorning its interior.
Although always impressed by the simple beauty of his new home, part and parcel of an inheritance he had earned from a wealthy uncle who recently passed, he at this point found it impossible to enjoy its simple masculine beauty.
“Every day is the same to me. I get up at the crack of dawn to work my land, then head into town to help keep the peace,” he reasoned, adding as he came near close to collapsing in his chair, “Then I come home, complete another few hours of ranch work, and go to sleep.”
Sometimes. On a night like this, however, he reflected instead on the continuous cycle of work that his life had become.
“Sometimes I go to visit my brother at the ranch up on the road, just to hear the laughter and be a part of the family dinners and games; to feel just a little less alone,” he mused, adding with a hefty sigh, “As things stand though, my standard work day is too full to even make those visits.”
He knew that he always could hire a ranch hand to help out around the place; yet he’d far prefer to share his space with someone who could fill his home with the warmth, laughter and love that he experienced at his brother’s house. And while friends assured him that—with his ebony haired, crystal eyed good looks and tall muscular physique—Clayton could attract just about any female, he did not simply want any female.
“I want a wife,” he said aloud, the lonesome echo of his words resounding all too loud in the emptiness around him. “Someone to share with, not supervise. Someone to build a life and a family with—not just some random helper who will work the fields with me and heed my every command.”
And indeed, the responses that he’d gotten thus far to his mail order bride advertisement had supplied him with everything that he didn’t want in a wife; these letters coming from women who offered themselves up as submissive helpmates, revealing nothing about their true personalities beyond their abilities to cook, work the fields and look fetching in a frock.
“And if I happened to lose my money, these pretty, sweet little lasses would be gone with the wind, sweeping away like so many tumbleweeds across the Texas landscape,” he mused with a snort. “I have no need for some oversized doll that will decorate my home and serve me my meals in the role of a well-paid servant. I want a real woman; someone who will be a loving friend and companion, while still being strong enough to handle a life culled from the fat of the frontier.”
He jumped in his chair as his troubled meditation was disrupted by the sound of a loud knock on the door; one that brought him to his feet as it echoed endless throughout his home.
“I really don’t know of anyone who bears such a forceful knock,” he thought, rolling his eyes heavenward as he approached the door. “I certainly hope that it’s not the sheriff, here to tell me about another compelling case that needs my immediate attention—one that just couldn’t possibly wait until morning.”
Not eager to find out the answer to this question, he opened the door with a begrudging hand; eyes flying wide and thoughts scattering as he came face to face with an unexpected visitor.
In place of the stout, bulky six-foot-tall man with the receding hairline, the sheriff whose frequent and inconvenient visits he’d almost come to expect, stood a petite woman with the appearance of a china doll—all the while staring at him with a determined fire eyed expression that betrayed a soul of steel.
Dressed in a basic mint green dress of clean but worn calico, the woman’s simple unadorned radiance expressed itself in a sleek shoulder length mane of soft ebony hair, wide dark eyes, glowing ivory skin, and a slender but curvaceous form that—while short in stature—betrayed a certain strength reflected in her toned arms and firm, straight posture.
Clutched in the woman’s delicate but sturdy hands was an adorable little girl who shone as the mirror image of the woman who held her tight and protective in her grasp; a girl who now looked at him with wide blinking eyes that seemed to convey a certain defined question.
“Who on earth are you and what on earth am I doing here?” the girl asked him with her eyes.
“Frankly Miss, I have no earthly idea,” he desperately wanted to respond at this point; opting instead to remember the refined gentlemanly manners that his parents had taught him so long ago.
“Evenin’, Ma’am—that is, Ma’ams,” he greeted the two females, tipping his wide brimmed ivory Stetson in something of a gentlemanly flourish. “May I help ya’?”
MariAnne nodded.
“Are you Clayton Townsend?” she barked, inclining her head sharp in Clayton’s direction as she shuffled her slippered feet on his doorstep.
“At this point I’m sure of nothing,” he really, really wanted to say, opting instead to make one final attempt at gentlemanly cordiality. “Yes Ma’am, I am indeed Deputy Sheriff Clayton Townsend. And who might you be, Ma’am?”
Gracing him with a short nod as if finally satisfied that he was indeed the man she’d been seeking, the woman before him offered her his gloved hand as she greeted, “Well good evenin’ Deputy Sheriff Clayton Townsend. I am Mail Order Bride MariAnne Parkinson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Clayton gaped outright as he took the lady’s offered hand and raised it to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss.
“So I take it that you’re answering my published ad for a mail order bride?”
MariAnne grinned.
“Well that is what I said, now isn’t it?” she queried in a light tone, adding as she graced him with an affectionate nudge, “My my, Deputy; you catch on quick.”
Clayton stared at her for a long moment, blinking hard as he considered the boldness of her words.
Then he started laughing. Hard.
“Well I’ll say one thing for ya Miss,” he told her, adding as he invited her inward and closed his door behind her, “You certainly do have a way with words.”
MariAnne shrugged, pursing her pearl pink lips in a firm businesslike fashion; even as she continued to cradle her quiet sleepy daughter in two adoring arms.
“Well I’ll tell ya something Clayton, I don’t know if I have a way with words, but I certainly don’t mince ‘em,” she revealed, adding as she pointed an authoritative finger in his direction, “So let me tell this to you plain and straight. I spent a precious portion of my meager savings on the carriage ride that brought me out here; and as I approached your plot of land, I saw the makings of a mighty fine ranch--one that, with the able touch of a woman, just might have the makins’ of a five-star ranch in the Lone Star state,” she paused here, adding as she pointed a confident thumb straight in her own direction, “And I just happen to be that woman. So without further ado, show me my room and we can both hit the hay; getting the rest we need for a productive day on the range tomorrow.”
Clayton froze.
“Well now Ma’am, I didn’t precisely say that you had the job,” he reminded her, adding as he made a broad gesture between them, “And I should note, for that matter, that this isn’t a job at all. I did not advertise for a cook or a ranch hand, but for a wife.”
For the first time throughout the course of their brief acquaintance, MariAnne Parkinson fell silent; inspiring a wave of acute concern in the eyes of her current beholder, who questioned her very well-being in the wake of this sudden change.
“Are you all right there, Miss?” he asked her, arching his eyebrows just as he pondered the probable location of her smelling salts at this point.
“I’m all right,” MariAnne answered finally, adding as she looked him straight in the eyes, “but, sad to say, I am not a miss. And although I would be pleased to offer you my services as a companion, a ranch hand, a cook and a consultant—providing, of course, that I’m treated in a kind and respectful manner—I cannot be your bride at this present time.” She paused here, adding as she shuffled her feet beneath her, “And this is owing to the f
act that I’m already married.”
Clayton gaped outright, shaking his head from side to side as he considered these most unexpected—not to mention unsettling—words.
“Well I guess that would explain the youngin’,” he mused, tone vague and voice barely above a whisper.
MariAnne nodded, setting her little girl down on the ground beside her as she regarded her with an adoring smile.
“This is my daughter Ellie,” she introduced her daughter, who now graced their host with an adorable smile and a downright precious wave. “This little girl is the light of my life, and the whole reason I need a good home.”
Clayton smiled, but only briefly.
“Well that little gal is beautiful Ma’am, just like her ma,” he praised them both, adding with a belabored sigh, “The problem with this proposed arrangement, Miss—that is, Mrs.—is that a man needs certain things in a prospective wife. He needs her to be smart, hardworking, kind, reliable, and—well, I just say have to say it—not married. Or at the very least, not married until he himself ventures to marry her.” He paused here, cringing as he realized that these last words made no earthly semblance of sense. “Oh, you know what I mean! As much as I would like to welcome a bright, tough, funny and absolutely beautiful lady such as yourself into my home, surely you understand why I can’t. I cannot live in sin with another man’s wife.”
MariAnne thought a moment, then nodded.
“I understand this,” she released on a sigh, adding as she pinned him with an entreating look, “Yet the whole reason that we came here, Clayton, was with the hopes that you would understand. I didn’t leave my home as much as I escaped it. My daughter and I ran from a man who made our lives a living hell—ordering us about, screaming at us because of mistakes and minor slights, and even hurting us physically.” She paused here, adding as she blinked hard and suppressed a genuine sob, “He hit me, Clayton—and he threatened to do the same to my daughter, should she ever step out of line. And where my husband is concerned, I’m afraid that his line is a tough one to walk. I almost believe that he looks for excuses to hurt me—the very act seems to bring him pleasure.”